Tired. Si damn tired. Orcel's thoughts swirled as his boots sank deep into the black snow, each step heavier than the last.
He wasn't sure how long he had been walking since he left the village behind. It could have been hours, days—time had lost its meaning. All he knew was that his body was on the verge of collapse, but the memories kept him moving, gnawing at his mind like a cruel whisper.
…
Orcel had stood over Marnet's lifeless body, his gaze fixed on her unmoving face. Her once-bright eyes, now dull and cold, stared into the abyss. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even as he felt his fists clench so hard his knuckles turned white.
She's gone, Orcel. You jnow she's gone, he told himself, forcing the words to ring in his mind. But the truth didn't make it easier. His throat tightened, and with a deep breath, he tore his gaze away.
The village—his home for the past two years—was unrecognizable. Broken houses, collapsed structures, charred and mangled bodies scattered across the frozen ground. Men, women, children… Orcel hadn't known most of them well, but that didn't stop the sharp sting of anger from rising in his chest with every lifeless face he saw.
His gaze landed on a crumbling building still barely standing—the bakery. The place where he and Marnet would often spend their last coins on warm bread. His stomach tightened with hunger, but the thought of food seemed distant now.
As he took a step toward it, he glanced over his shoulder, back at Marnet's body slowly being buried by the falling black snow. His feet halted.
With a heavy sigh, he turned back and walked toward her. He couldn't leave her like this.
…
Orcel dug through the frozen ground, working through the pain in his back and the overwhelming exhaustion. He was careful—delicate, even—as he placed Marnet into the makeshift grave. Her body was laid gently, her arms folded over her chest as if she were just sleeping.
He gave her one last glance. Her eyes were closed now, her expression peaceful, and somehow, a small smile still lingered on her face.
Why did you have to die like that? Orcel thought bitterly, his throat tightening again. Slowly, he began to push the dirt over her body, each handful heavier than the last.
When he finished, a thought crossed his mind. Should I pray for her? The question lingered, gnawing at him. The village priest always said prayers to ward off evil spirits after a death, but Orcel had never believed in spirits. Even so, he didn't want Marnet to be bound to this place, chained to her pain for eternity.
He knelt beside her grave, hands clasped together awkwardly. Silence stretched on as he searched for words, unsure of how to begin or what to say. He wasn't a priest. He wasn't a Witch or a Hunter. But still, he had to try.
"Rest now," he whispered, voice barely audible in the cold wind. "Find solace within me."
Orcel stood, staggering slightly as the gash on his back flared with pain, the strain of standing too fast making his vision blur for a moment. He gritted his teeth, trying to push through it.
He couldn't stay here. He needed shelter, food, something to help his wound. With a heavy heart, he turned and headed toward the bakery.
…
Inside, the bakery was just as devastated as the rest of the village. Shelves were upturned, food either stolen or destroyed during the attack. Orcel's gaze fell to the floorboards, noticing faint, hurried footprints.
"Bastards must've been in a rush," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness.
Still, he couldn't leave empty-handed. Anything he could scavenge, no matter how little, would be better than nothing. He moved through the wreckage, looking for anything salvageable.
In the back, among the shattered crates and empty containers, he spotted a single intact box tossed aside. Orcel crouched down, noticing the lid was still sealed. "Guess they couldn't get it open," he muttered, pressing his thumbs against the lock mechanism until it clicked open.
Inside were two pieces of raw meat, a loaf of bread, and some beans. Hardly a feast, but enough to keep him going. "Not bad," he murmured, closing the box and setting it aside.
Continuing his search, he found another container, this one dented and damaged. Shaking it, he heard a slosh of something wet inside. With a grimace, he pried it open.
The smell hit him instantly—rotten and sour. Orcel reeled back, gagging, pinching his nose as he stared down at the mush of unrecognizable food. "This… looks like shit." He leaned in, gave it a sniff, and immediately regretted it. "Smells like it, too."
After a while of scavenging, he managed to gather a few essentials—a container of food, two flasks of water, and a thick picnic blanket. He tied everything together, slinging it over his shoulder. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.
As he stepped outside, a sharp sting from the wound on his back caused him to wince. It had been bothering him for a while now, and he knew he needed something to dull the pain.
His eyes drifted to a nearby clinic, barely standing but still intact. The chances of it not being ransacked were slim, but it was better than nothing.
Leaning against the bakery wall for a moment, he caught his breath, tightening the blanket bundle against his shoulder. "I've got nothing to lose," he muttered to himself. "Maybe I can find some painkillers… something."
Pushing himself off the wall, Orcel trudged toward the clinic.